


Upon a Pogged Winter's Day

by Spiderface



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, slolstice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:29:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28189227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiderface/pseuds/Spiderface
Summary: Poggers Discourse goes out for lunch. Written for the Boston Flowers Winter Slolstice community event.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Upon a Pogged Winter's Day

Preface  
On November 26th, 2020, several fans of the Boston Flowers were discussing the patreon submitted Blaseball name pool. They realized a goldilocks player name had recently become possible- Poggers Discourse. Poggers instantly became a fan favorite, despite not existing.

Or rather, despite not existing yet. Theoretically, if Blaseball runs forever, we will eventually get a player generated with every possible combination of names. Who knows when Poggers Discourse will see the light of day, but if that day were today, perhaps their story will look something like this.

\---

Poggers’ phone buzzed, rattling itself across the desk. Their eyes, deeply focused on a diamond ranked game of Bleague of Blegends, briefly flicked from screen to screen, processing only the name of who had sent the text. Their heart instantly dropped to their stomach, where it stayed until the game was lost. 

Poggers picked up their phone and stared at it, the screen blank. For a while, they thought about what it would mean to not read it, to swipe away the preview and let the text sit there unread for all eternity. 

But, with a sigh, they figured it would be easier to just get it over with.

“Hi honey!

I’m sorry you had to send back your birthday presents- I guess they didn’t fit, or you’re not wearing that style anymore. My bad! I’m just going to wire you some money for that and Hanukkah and you can get yourself whatever gifts you want.

I miss you, and so do your grandparents. Let me know if you want to join us for holiday dinner.

Lots of love,

Mom”

Poggers stood up from their chair, stretching as they made their way over to the dresser in the corner of the tiny apartment. On top of their sports bra and boxers went a patterned dress shirt and a pair of slacks, followed by socks, gloves, winter coat and a cheap pair of ripoff blundstones. It was time to go out for lunch.

The phone remained, lying face down on the desk.

\---

Poggers strolled through the empty streets, snow falling softly on their bright purple hair. Boston was a city in tune with nature, and that meant that winters were quiet and still, even at the busiest of holiday times. But, like warrens of rabbits hidden just beneath the frozen forest floor, there were still pockets of life and warmth if you knew where to look for them. Poggers’ personal favorite of these was Amy’s Deli.

At the tinkle of the shop bell, the eponymous Amy (or rather, the original Amy’s granddaughter, also named Amy) looked up at the door and grinned. “Well hey there, Discourse,” She quipped, as Poggers shook off the snow, “How’s it going?”

“👋👇😀❗👆❓”  
“Oh, you know, can’t complain. What can I getcha today?”

“🔥🐟🍔➕🍟☕👉🚪🙇❗”

Amy’s brow furrowed as she parsed the meaning of the images Poggers had said. 

“A... fried fish sandwich with a side of french fries? And a coffee? To go?”

“👍”

“Ha! Told ya I was getting better at it. Coming right up, sweetheart.”

She shuffled happily back to the kitchen, humming along to the music coming through the crackly speakers. By her own admission, Amy was ‘just a little too old’ to immediately understand Poggers when they spoke, but she was patient and kind, and the two of them always worked things out. It was a big reason why Poggers had become a regular here ever since moving into the neighborhood. 

A dozen minutes later, Amy emerged from the kitchen with a coffee cup and a brown paper bag. With a quick “🙇💝👋❗” followed by a “Uh, you too! Stay warm!” Poggers was swiftly out the door and back into the cold, a new destination in mind- the Boston Garden.

\---

It wasn’t strictly illegal to enter the splorts stadium/nature conservatory while the Flowers were using it for practice, but the team did tend to lock the place up to give themselves a bit of privacy. Despite this, taking advantage of a couple broken window locks, Poggers had found a reliable way to sneak in, and had taken to watching the team train while they ate their lunch. Nobody really seemed to mind.

As they unwrapped their fish sandwich, delicious smells wafting from the foil, Margarito Nava, the Flower’s acting captain, looked up from the pitch, smiled and waved. Poggers blushed, gingerly waving back. Ohmygosh, Nava was like, sooooo cool. Xe was Poggers biggest inspiration, though they would never admit that to xir face. As Poggers dug into their lunch, the team started some batting exercises, and they imagined what it would be like to be down there with them...

Discourse gripped the bat confidently as they stood at the plate. Weatherman, brow furled, wound up, and from his hand sprung a pitch like lightning. But Discourse was ready for it, and their whole body swung smoothly into the ball. With a thunderous crack, it flew into the stands, a bona fide home run. Everyone cheered, Poggers turning to see Margo (they called xem Margo now because they were friends) grinning, hands on hips. “Ugh, fiiine,” Margo said with a laugh, “I guess you are my little pogchamp, come here.” Then they would high five, and Poggers would say…

Poggers would say…

Margo looked up at the stands, and where xe expected to see the team’s mystery fan, sat instead nothing but a crumpled up sandwich wrapper. Huh, ze thought to zirself, wonder where they went.

\---

Poggers wandered aimlessly through the empty Boston streets, a bitter wind stinging against the tears running down their cheeks. Shame and guilt weighed heavy in their chest. What a stupid fantasy to have, they thought to theirself. The Flowers would never have a player who spoke only in frickin’ emoji on their team. How could they? They would be the laughing stock of the league, nobody ever respecting them again. Not to mention that Poggers would screw the whole thing up anyways.

They remembered the last team they were on a team- High School Debate Club. Their teammates picked on them relentlessly for how they spoke, and whenever they went to competitions, the other teams just laughed at them too. It seemed like a never ending nightmare. But whenever Poggers would ask their mother to let them off the team, the answer was always a firm no, Pogetta. You are a Discourse, the world’s oldest family of great debaters. And being a Discourse meant being in Debate Club. End of story.

Stupid mom. Every time she texted it always messed up Poggers’ whole day like this. When would she get the fricking memo and just leave them alone!?

Poggers slumped against a chain link fence, tears flowing freely down their face. “😭” they sobbed repeatedly into the ground. As they stood there crying, it slowly dawned on them that they had no idea where they were, or for how long they had been walking. When they looked up, a soft “😮” escaped their lips. It was a familiar sight- the blaseball diamond of the park next to their childhood home.

Poggers walked slowly along the basepaths, obscured by snow but burned into their mind’s eye. As they walked, new memories of mom rose to the surface. The two of them coming here after school to practice their swings and pitches together. Mom taking them to games whenever the season was on, the two of them wearing matching Flowers jerseys. Making dinner together every Saturday, watching the finals as they ate.

The worst part, Poggers realized, was that most of the time she had been a fun, loving, accepting parent. So why’d she have to mess everything up over some stupid club!?

As they rounded third base, Poggers’ foot clunked against something buried in the snow. Reaching down, they found an empty root beer can, coated in ice. Mom used to drink a lot of these, they remembered. Especially when Poggers’ grandparents came over for dinner. 

On those nights, when after everyone thought they were asleep, Poggers would sneak down the stairs to listen to mom and grandpa argue. Always, it was over Poggers’ poor results in school or debate club, and how that was caused by mom’s lack of “hard parenting.” The days following those visits were always her worst- mom was the most sad, she drank the most soda, and the two of them got into their worst fights.

Was Melinda Discourse also just a victim of Discourse family expectations, pushing her down a life path she struggled to follow? And even if she was, did that earn her forgiveness for the harm she’d caused?

Poggers stood on the pitching mound, holding the can in a throwing grip. They closed their eyes, and imagined it was mom standing at the plate again- her hips out, bat raised, a grin across her face.

“👀👩❗🌠⚾👆❗” They shouted into the wind. They pitched the can as hard as they could, and it landed with a soft plop in the snow.

\---

Poggers threw their outerwear off in a haphazard pile, happy to finally be home. It was already dark out by the time they started finding their way back, and the clock on the oven confirmed that, somehow, it was almost time for dinner. So, putting on the latest Garages album, Poggers got straight to work. Yesterday’s rice became tonight’s stir fry, in a medley of chicken, vegetables and sauces that they and their mom had mastered together, from a recipe they had seen on daytime TV. It was easy and always delicious.

With a plate of food in one hand and a can of Mountain Dlew in the other, Poggers settled back down at their desk. They threw on a random twitch stream, and were about to take their first bite of food, when the phone caught their eye, lying right where it had been left, so many hours ago. Taking a deep breath, Poggers picked it up, opened the conversation with 👩, and texted a single word.

“👋”

\---

A few minutes later, the phone buzzed. Poggers immediately tensed up, but loosened when they noticed it wasn’t a text at all. It was a message from FanBlall, a Blaseball fan networking app. A message from… Margarito Nava!?

“Hey!

You’re the one who was watching us practice today, right? Sorry if this is weird, I found you through your pictures here. I just wanted to let you know, if you ever want to come down and meet the team after practice, you totally can! And if you wanted to get in without having to sneak through the windows, let me know. We love having fans around, as long as they’re respectful.

Also, looking through your posts, it looks like you might have some experience with community event planning? The team was thinking of doing something for Slolstice this year, some kinda Gala or something? Anyway, we could use some help with it. Let me know if you’re interested!

Keep it Bama Breezy,

M. Nava*

*not legally associated with N. Nava.”


End file.
